Batman: Cult of the Joker
by BettertoReign
Summary: While the Joker is locked away in Arkham Asylum, a mysterious gang of vandals starts leaving the image of the Joker all over the city. Murder ensues.
1. Chapter 1

"he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him."

—Revelation 12.9 (KJV)

* * *

GRAND AVENUE, GOTHAM CITY.—Theatregoers were shocked Wednesday night when they discovered many of the posters surrounding the theatre district had been defaced during the eight o'clock show. Every poster bearing a face on the street was painted with spray paint to resemble the Joker. Below each defaced image was the simple tagline "Free Joker," written in black paint.

Police officers who were on duty believe that the vandals acted during a fifteen minute period, starting at 10:00 p.m., when the streetlights in the district blinked out and they received several false 9-11 calls. Gotham City Police Department is currently investigating the crime and is unsure whether the events are connected to the Joker, who now resides permanently in Arkham Asylum, or if it is a group of well-organized vandals who wanted to breed fear in Gotham City.

"These vandals will be brought to justice," Commissioner James Gordon said in a statement to the press. "We are taking this matter seriously, as we do all incidents that appear to be related to the Joker. We are not treating this crime as a simple act of vandalism, not with the long history this city has had with that maniac."

"I fully trust the G.C.P.D. will bring these fear-mongers to justice," Mayor David Hull said in a statement from City Hall. "Gothamites should continue business as usual. We will not live in fear."

Martha Burnan, who was attending a performance of _Les Miserable_ , said, "We were having such a good time. The show was beautiful, and then we walked out and saw that horrible smile staring at us from the poster across the street. I physically shook the whole ride home. You know that monster killed my niece two years ago when he escaped from Arkham."

Many theatregoers who were interviewed shared the same sentiment as Mrs. Burnan. "I'm going to stay home for a few weeks," reported Ms. Rose Woodson. "One cannot be too careful in this town."

— _The Gotham Gazette_

* * *

GOTHAM SQUARE, GOTHAM CITY.—Christmas shoppers in Gotham Square were frightened Thursday night when all of the advertising screens surrounding the square suddenly changed to a mugshot of the Joker with the phrase "Free Joker" written below in block letters. The screens remained on the image for five minutes as technicians tried to override the system to no result.

...

"Our Cyber Crimes Unit is on the case," Commissioner Gordon commented. "I cannot say much about our progress in in the case because it may harm the investigation, but I want the people of Gotham to rest assure that we will find the perps soon and bring them to justice."

"This is bad for business," Mr. Joseph Rosenthal, an owner of a boutique on Gotham Square, said. "After the incident, our store emptied out. We barely saw a customer for the rest of the night. If this continues, I'm afraid this may hurt our Christmas sales."

Ms. Janis Werther, owner of Werther Electronics and Entertainment, across the street said, "We depend on the holiday season to make it through the slower parts of the year. G.C.P.D needs to act quickly. We cannot afford for this to continue."

— _The Gotham Gazette_

* * *

Operator: Gotham Emergency Services. What is your emergency?

Caller: My son is missing. Please send someone now! I think he has been kidnapped [Sobbing].

Operator: What is your address?

Caller: 1430 Crest Hill Avenue. Oh my God, oh my god, oh my...

Operator: We have dispatched an officer to 1430 Crest Hill Avenue. He should arrive in a couple of minutes. What is his name, and how old is he?

Caller: John Winter. He is only four months old. We just recently moved him to the crib in his room. I woke up this morning, surprised to not hear him cry. When I went to check on him, his crib was empty.

—Transcript of 9-1-1 Call, Friday, 8:00 a.m.

* * *

We were married when I was twenty, and she nineteen. It was a different time then. People married young and stayed married. It was our dream to have a large family. We both came from large Catholic families, and we could not imagine any other life. Then, we discovered that we could not have children. I still remember seeing the first tear streak down her face as the doctor broke the news. It was translucent, but the second one brought a black tinge with it from her mascara. I put my arm around her shoulder to comfort her. I did not know what to say.

When we returned to our apartment in the Village, she was the first to break the silence. She said, "Tom, if it is not in God's will for us to have children, then he must have other plans for us. Maybe, we can serve the church in ways that other families cannot." From that day forward, we used the extra time that the absence of children provided to work at the church.

I often think back to that day because it is an exemplar of my wife's strength and resolve. When I was broken and speechless by our worst nightmare, she stared into its face and found life and purpose. On Friday, we faced a nightmare beyond imagining, and again, she demonstrated her strength.

On Friday, we went to St. John of Cross Catholic Church at seven to help Fr. Lewis set up for morning mass, as was our routine. When we approached the door to the sanctuary, we noticed that it had been left ajar. We assumed Fr. Lewis forgot to close it, but, as we came to the door, we heard the wailing of a baby. I pushed the door open and…

—Frank Sullivan's Journal

* * *

Frank turned. His face was a ghastly pale. He fumbled in his pocket for his inhaler and stumbled to the bench outside of the church. I watched him take a seat and inhale the mist, but I could not stand behind with the cry of the child inside. I turned and rushed into the sanctuary. I froze for a moment. In place of Christ on the cross, I saw a body hanging. His arms were tied to the horizontal posts with blood streaming from his pierced hands. His face wore the dreadful smear of white makeup with a gruesome smile painted in red on his agonized face. His eyes were hollow with death, and I realized that it was the face of Fr. Lewis. At his feet, a baby had been placed on the communion table.

I rushed to the table. It was wrapped in a white cloth, bespattered with blood. Its face—those monsters—was painted in the same style as the Joker. I turned and hurried back to Frank who had recovered and had called you. Who would do such a thing? What has the world come to? Did...did he do this?

—Mrs. Dorothy Sullivan's Statement to G.C.P.D.

* * *

The body has been identified as Fr. Lewis. When we arrived at the scene of the crime, he had been hanging from the cross for six to eight hours. The blood that ran down the cross and splattered the communion table was already dried, and the blood from his wounds was congealing. The perps appear to have attacked him sometime around midnight. From the lacerations on his back and a rope we found thrown into the pews, it appears that they first bound him to the communion table, cut open the back of his frock, and lashed his back with a corded rope.

After they beat him, they removed the mold of the crucified Christ from the cross, bound his wrists to the horizontal bar, and his feet to the post of the cross with black nylon cord. The then pierced his palms with rudimentary batarangs. Compared to batarangs we have recovered from other crime scenes, these do not appear to be the make of the one's used by Batman. They then smeared his face with white grease paint, pierced his left side with a seven-inch blade. The perps pushed the blade up into his left lung. They then used the blood from the wound to paint a Joker grin on his face. Upon his chest, they carved the words, "He shall rise again. HAHAHA!"

—Excerpt from Investigator's Report on the Crime Scene


	2. Chapter 2

The scumbag doesn't even know he's being watched. His fingers are stained with cheeto dust. They scurry across the keyboard and then into his pants. I cannot see the screen, but according to my computer, he has spent the last hour alternating between hacking into various systems and streaming porn. He is about a hundred fifty pounds overweight, he is in his late twenties, and has not seen a gym since his freshman year of high school.

In ten minutes, G.C.P.D.'s finest will storm his apartment, seize his computer, and take him into custody for questioning. Before they arrive, he is going to have a chat with me.

—Batman's Black Notebook

* * *

I was lost in voluptuousness when suddenly my chair turned into the darkness, a swift fist descended, and I fell to the floor...

—Reginald Chadwick, Journal

* * *

He grabbed his groin and moaned, but not like he did before he knew my presence. I swiftly kicked him in the ribs, sending him rolling across the floor onto his back and landed on top of him with my knee pressed firmly into his chest, my left hand gripped his collar, and my right fist prepared to punch.

—Batman's Black Notebook

* * *

"That was for the priest," he growled. His pointed ears were outlined by the light of the screen behind him. His face was hidden in the shadows. All I could see was a massive, bat, roar at me in the dark. I tried to keep my composure. I always assumed he was human, but, at that moment, I was sure he was some form of demon…

—Reginald Chadwick, Journal

* * *

I smelled ammonia in the air. The perp must have pissed himself out of fear.

—Batman's Black Notebook

* * *

"Who organized the vandalism and the murder?" he asked. I remembered my training. He was order. He was the one holding us back. He was the one that locked our freedom away. I laughed and said, "My time has come, but he lives."

—Reginald Chadwick, Journal

* * *

He cackled. It was a bad impersonation of the Joker. The Joker's laugh never faltered with fear or hesitation.

"Who lives," I asked.

—Batman's Black Notebook

* * *

"You'll know when he is free," he said, "Then, we will all be free." He punctuated the sentence with another laugh. This one free from fear. Blue lights flashed on the street below and illuminated the room. I punched him in the face, breaking his nose. That was for the baby. I exited the window and left him to Jim.

—Batman's Black Notebook

* * *

I now hear their footsteps as they move down the hall. This is my last journal entry. I did not talk. The Bat doesn't know. Long live the Joker and the world to come.

—Reginald Chadwick, Journal

* * *

We kicked in the door and found the suspect sitting on the ground with blood pouring down his face and soaking the front of his shirt. He appeared to be recording something on his phone, which he dropped immediately and raised his hands. The suspect laughed as Officer Benning cuffed him and read him his rights. He continued to laugh as he guided him to the elevator while the detectives searched his room.

—Police Report

* * *

I always knew that fat weirdo was up to something. I never thought it'd be this weird though. I didn't trust him. He was always in his room, on his computer. He never spoke to anyone, but he always gave me the creeps. When I saw the cops carrying him out with a broken nose, I thought, "He must have really done something—but being a part of these murderous vandals—I never imagined.

—Sheila Holbrooks, 63, Neighbor of R. Chadwick, Statement to Gotham Gazette

* * *

As the elevator doors shut, he stopped laughing and we heard a crunch between his teeth. He seized and dropped to the floor dead. We suspect that he had a cyanide capsule hidden in his mouth. Autopsy and toxicology reports have been requested.

—Police Report

* * *

I had all of the evidence that G.C.P.D. needed to search his apartment and seize his computer. I also gathered enough evidence to charge him for the cyber crimes he committed while assisting the vandals, and we were going to use the threat of a murder charge to try to convince him to talk. I watched as they rolled his body out on a stretcher, face covered, dead. Though I frightened him, he was not going to talk, and I doubt that he would have cracked in interrogation at police H.Q. He had a fanaticism in his eyes that is usually reserved for revolutionaries and religious extremists.

Though we nailed him for the cyber crimes, he did not leave any evidence to help us to find his crew. Before he was apprehended, he sent a voice recording to a burner phone. I found the pieces scattered through Crime Alley. The phone had no fingerprints and had been stolen out of the back of a truck a year ago. According to the data from the phone company, the phone had only been turned on for a week and had been registered to a John Smith.

I checked behind the police to make sure they did not miss anything, and it appears that I am at an impasse. The crew seems to be new, and they are completely different than Joker's typical gang. His gang doesn't talk out of fear of him. It is a game of Russian Roulette. If they can survive long enough, they will hit a big score and be rewarded. If they are unlucky, they become another tally in their boss's death count. Chadwick was devoted to the Joker. He spoke of him in religious terms that reflected the strange murder of the priest.

Yet, this is not the Joker's _M.O._ The Joker likes doing the dirty work. This is something new. I'm going to have to keep my ears to the ground. I fear there is more death to come before I can put an end to this.

—Batman's Black Notebook


	3. Chapter 3

Back in the day, the room would be filled with smoke. No one smokes anymore—the wealthy don't at least, and that is who is here. Nothing but blue bloods majestically moving around the room in their tailored black tuxes, ladies in their pencil thin black dresses, and me in a stuffy rented tux, feeling like a fish that's been dropped into the Sierra Desert.

The paper sent me to report on the city's fundraiser to build a new youth and community center in the Bowery, but no one really cares. I spent my first ten years at the Gazette in the Bowery, reporting on murder, prostitution, and street gangs. Then, the Batman showed up. He beat the shit out of the people who fed off of the kids, who gave them drugs, brought them into the gangs, and turned them into murderers. He beat the shit out of their parents, who were strung out, abusive, and impoverished. He would show grace to the fifteen-year-old, knowing that the kid was a product of his environment, but he never seemed to consider that he also kicked the shit out of that kid's older brother, uncle, or father. He never considered how many of those kids' families he sent to jail, and when that kid turned eighteen and became one of the leeches that fed off of the younger ones in the community, he would send that kid to jail too.

Of course, the blue bloods and politicians of Gotham have the answer. They will donate their money to a building that will offer a free clinic, recreation for the youth, educational and mentoring programs, and a possible path into the norms of the neo-liberal system of capitalism. The blue bloods will donate their money and forget about the Bowery, assuming that they have done their job. They've helped the poor, and now they can write it off on their taxes. Meanwhile, they will help a few families, but the structural damage is done. What created the Bowery in the first place? The families that are building this community center. Their families were the first to build the tenements for the poor immigrants and farmers to live who moved to Gotham to work in their factories. When it became cheaper to outsource the plants, their families were the ones who took away a stable source of income and moved their jobs overseas, leaving them in crumbling apartment buildings and government projects.

Both the blue bloods and Batman share the same problem. They can attempt to remove the negatives that have been done over the century, but how can they fix the generations of people who have already been broken?

—John Whitman, Notes

* * *

I thought that after tonight my re-election next year would be a cinch. Bruce Wayne has already offered to donate one million to the project, and he promised further donations to support the programs at the youth center. We haven't even collected any of the bids from the blind auction, and we are on our way to starting construction within the month without debt to the city. As I maneuvered through the room, smiling, shaking hands, and making contacts, I saw old John Whitman from The Gotham Gazette leaning against a wall in the corner scribbling in his notepad. He wore his usual scowl. I approached him and said, "I didn't know the paper paid you to be a wallflower, old friend."

He looked up and smirked: "It doesn't pay me to provide you with free publicity for your campaign either, Mayor."

—Mayor Hull

* * *

After I got a few quotes from the mayor, I decided I should probably leave my perch and go talk to the blue bloods about all of the good that they were doing. The mayor talked about how the center would completely rejuvenate the Bowery and help cut down on crime. I asked why he didn't assist the Bowery by bringing good paying jobs to the community. He danced around the question with some bullshit about the complexity of attracting businesses to the area in its current condition, but the youth center would help. I countered by asking wouldn't reinvestment in the schools and community colleges in the area also improve conditions and attract businesses. He talked about what the city was doing in those areas, but I will go there a year from now, after that windbag is re-elected, and see the same crumbling schools without a technical college in sight.

I talked to a few more people about the party and local events, and then went to the buffet and enjoyed the shrimp cocktail and free booze.

—John Whitman, Notes

* * *

Whitman was an old-school reporter, and he hit hard, but he wasn't the worst punch that night. I saw him over by the buffet, stuffing his face, before I approached the podium to make a speech and announce the winners of the blind auction when a man punched me in the face as I approached the stage and said, "We'll take it from here, mayor."

I tumbled to the ground. I've never been hit so hard in my life. As my vision cleared, I looked up to see a gunman on stage. He had long greasy brown hair down to his shoulders. His face was painted white with the familiar joker grin, yet he did not grin. His deep-set gray eyes were made more distinct by the black eyeshadow. He scanned the room and he smirked. He carried an AR-15 that he pointed toward the ceiling. I looked around and noticed that several men in clown masks had entered the building with guns and had corralled the audience into the center of the ballroom in front of the stage.

"No applause," he laughed. "Or maybe you can only applaud yourselves for all of your good deeds. All of the order that you have given us, but it is only an order that enriches you. It is only an order that protects you and your families and enriches them for generations, but I am here to bring a message of deliverance."

—Mayor Hull

* * *

I looked up from my plate of shrimp to see a kid approach the stage with Joker makeup smeared across his face. The gunmen surrounded the attendees and made them raise their hands and kneel. One of the clowns pulled me from the table and shoved me to the ground.

"Watch it, bub," I said to the guy and he pressed a 12 gage against my skull.

The guy on stage, after rambling about order and chaos and the rich and the poor, jumped off stage with the mic demanded one of the females in the audience to stand. She was in her early thirties, wearing a stunning black dress. She had been born into wealth, married into wealth, and she shook like a feather in the wind.

"You think Batman's gonna save you," he laughed and pressed a black kabar against her throat. He leaned in close and licked her cheek. She shrieked. "If Batman appears, we will not focus on him. We will unload our weapons until he stops us. You can't stomach that, can you Batsy?"

—John Whitman, Notes

* * *

I felt the steel edge of the blade against my throat. My eyes burned, but I could not give him the pleasure of crying. I was a Gothamite. As he threatened the Batman, the lights cut off, but not just the lights in the building. The surrounding four blocks went dark. The room was pitch black, and as soon as the room went dark, the knife was pulled from my throat, and I hear a series of grunts and groans. Within a minute, the lights returned and all of the clowns were tied up or had been incapacitated.

—Monica Silvers

* * *

When the room went dark, I grabbed the barrel of the shotgun, pushed it down, and shove the butt of the gun into the chin of the clown. His jaw cracked and he screamed as he fell to the floor. I heard the sound of the other men being taken down in then the light came on. I was the only one left standing with a shotgun. The rich broad that was held at gunpoint looked down at the lead clown, whose arm was bent the wrong way and had a shattered knee, and stood up and planted her heel into the torn joint of his elbow. He screamed and writhed.

"Take that, bastard," she said as she turned and walked away. I smiled. We could all use a woman like that.

Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne's ward, was kneeling on the ground next to me. He stood up. He brow covered in sweat from nerves.

"I didn't know the Gazette taught you boys to fight," he said with a smirk.

"The Gazette didn't, but the Marines did, son," I returned. "I looked around. "Where's Mr. Wayne? I know I saw him earlier."

"He had an emergency to attend to, Mr. Whitman," Drake said. "Think I can leave? I know Bruce is going to be worried when this makes the news.

"I'm sure the police have enough witnesses, kid," I said and then asked, "What kind of emergency?"

"Who knows," Drake replied. "I just a kid. He doesn't tell me everything."

The kid walked away as the police entered the room. The Wayne servant met him with the police and escorted him from the room. What a strange family.

—John Whitman, Notes

* * *

If felt like the bitch stabbed me in the arm when she pressed her heel into my torn joint. When the paramedics picked me up, they gave me a light painkiller, but refused to give me anything heavy. They said the cops had some questions for me, and that came before my comfort. They loaded me into the bright fluorescent ambulance and started to drive. After a few blocks they stopped, and the two paramedics exited without me.

"Are we at the hospital," I screamed. I was dying. I felt a cold sweat on my brow as the lights flicked off and on.

"You're down an arm and a leg," a voice growled from behind me. "Do you want to be down two more."

It was him. I laughed: "It's already too late, Batsy. Our plan is going as scheduled. Chaos will reign soon.

I felt a gloved hand grab my arm, bend it back and press against the elbow. "What is going as planned."

My laugh broke as I felt my other arm pressed close to breaking. "He's coming," I screamed. "There's nothing you can do!"

As he added more pressure on my arm to go for the break," he paused and then snapped the arm.

I screamed in pain, and he injected morphine into my IV. The pain resided in waves. He came around as my vision blurred. His demonhead stared down at me with glowing eyes. "If he kills one person, I'll return for the other leg."

The light flashed off and on. He disappeared. I smiled, knowing that the Joker was finally free.

—Jason Devos, Lead Clown


End file.
